Chapter 6: Mile High Initiation
The thrum of the jet engines was a physical thing in Randy’s bones, a constant vibration that matched the low-grade hum still coursing through him from the screening room. He stared out the window at nothing, at the endless quilt of clouds below, tasting phantom salt and disinfectant. The “TSA CLEARED” stamp in his bag felt less like a mark of passage and more like a brand.
“Sir? Another pillow?”
He blinked. A flight attendant leaned into the aisle beside him. She was older than he’d expected, maybe mid-forties, with a severe blonde bun and sharp green eyes that held no particular warmth. Her name tag read ‘SLOANE’.
“No. Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice rough.
She didn’t move. Instead, she placed a hand on the headrest of the empty seat beside him, her body blocking the view from the aisle. Her professional smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We do need to complete a secondary security verification. It’s random. Won’t take a moment.” Her voice was low, just for him. “Please follow me.”
The hum in his bones became a sharp, ringing alarm. No. Not again. Not here.
But his body was already moving, unbuckling, standing on unsteady legs. The compulsion was a wire attached to his spine, pulled taut by a force waiting thousands of feet below in Wisconsin. He followed the sway of Sloane’s navy-blue skirt as she led him up the dimmed cabin, past the curious glances of a few sleepless passengers, toward the galley at the front.
She didn’t stop in the galley. With a glance to ensure they were unobserved, she opened a small, heavy door marked ‘CREW ONLY’ and gestured him through.
It was a luggage compartment, narrow and long, lined with stacks of suitcases and crew bags strapped into webbing. The air was colder, thick with the smell of jet fuel and stale recycled air. The engine roar was louder here, a pervasive growl that swallowed sound.
Sloane closed the door, sealing them in. The only light came from a single dim overhead bulb.
“Katie says hello,” she said, her professional cadence dropping into something drier, more familiar. She leaned against a stack of luggage, crossing her arms. “She also said you might need a little… in-flight entertainment. To pass the time.”
Randy’s mouth was desert-dry. He said nothing. He just watched, a prisoner awaiting sentencing.
Sloane’s hands went to the waistband of her skirt. She unbuttoned it, let it fall to the floor around her ankles, revealing muscular thighs and plain black briefs. But the briefs bulged, strained against something thick and heavy. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down.
Randy’s breath hitched. It was a shock of pale flesh in the dull light, thick and semi-erect already. It was utterly, disarmingly real.
“Security check,” Sloane said, a faint smirk touching her lips. She took herself in hand, giving a slow, practiced stroke. “We have to be thorough. You understand. After that stunt at John Wayne, we can’t be too careful. Turn around. Hands on that suitcase.”
The command was so casual, so devoid of theatrical menace, that it was somehow more terrifying. This wasn’t Miller’s cold authority. This was a woman doing an odd, intimate job. Randy turned, placing his palms on the cool, pebbled surface of a hard-shell spinner. He heard the rustle of her uniform blouse, the unzip of a pocket.
His phone, in his own pocket, buzzed. He knew without looking.
Sloane plucked it from his trousers herself. He heard her tap the screen, then a moment later, Katie’s voice, tinny but clear from the speaker.
“There he is. Hi, baby. You look good bent over like that. Sloane going to take good care of you?”
“He’s cooperating,” Sloane said, setting the phone on a duffel bag, screen angled toward them. “So far.”
“Good boy. Show me you can follow all the rules, Randy. Every single one.”
Sloane’s hands were on his hips, yanking his pants and briefs down to his knees in one swift motion. The cold air of the compartment bit at his exposed skin. Her touch was impersonal, assessing. One hand ran over the curve of his ass, then fingers traced the cold metal of the cage still locked around him. She let out a soft, appreciative grunt.
“Nice. Okay, sweetheart. Let’s see that mouth.”
She didn’t guide him to his knees. She pushed down on his shoulder until his legs buckled, his knees hitting the thin carpet with a thud he felt more than heard. She stepped forward, the thick head of her cock brushing his lips. He could smell a faint, clean soap scent mixed with something muskier.
“Open.”
He did. The moment it slid past his lips, the texture and weight of it—so different from Miller’s—made his stomach clench. It was fuller, harder, and Sloane had none of Miller’s procedural detachment. She used his mouth with a workmanlike focus, one hand fisted in his hair, the other holding her phone up, filming it for Katie.
“Look at that,” Katie cooed from the speaker. “Taking it so deep. You hungry for it? You must be. Tell her thank you.”
Randy gagged, his eyes streaming. He forced the guttural, muffled words around the intrusion. “Th-thank you.”
“Louder.”
“Thank you!” It was a choked sob, absorbed by flesh.
Sloane fucked his face with a steady, rhythmic pace, her breathing only slightly elevated. She checked her watch at one point, a surreal gesture that shattered any last pretense of passion. This was a task. He was a tool. After a few relentless minutes, she pulled out with a wet pop, leaving him gasping, drool dripping onto the carpet.
“Okay. Up. Bend back over.”
He struggled to stand, his legs prickling with numbness. He leaned over the suitcase again, his forehead pressed against the cool shell. He heard a cap snap open, the slick sound of lubricant. He braced himself.
There was no gentle preparation. Sloane’s fingers, slick and blunt, pressed against him, then pushed inside. He cried out, the sound lost in the engine roar.
“Tight,” Sloane commented, almost to herself. “Okay.”
The blunt, broad head of her cock pressed where her fingers had been. She leaned her weight into him, one hand splayed on his back, pinning him to the luggage.
“Breathe out,” Katie’s voice instructed, calm as a yoga teacher.
Randy exhaled a shuddering breath, and Sloane pushed. The burn was instantaneous, a searing stretch that tore a ragged gasp from his lungs. She didn’t stop. She pushed until she was fully hilted, her body pressed flush against his ass. She held there, letting him feel the overwhelming, impossible fullness.
“See?” Katie said. “You can take it. You can take anything for me.”
Then Sloane began to move. It was not lovemaking. It was a pounding, mechanical piston action, each thrust slamming him against the unyielding suitcase. The metal edges dug into his hips. The straps of the webbing nearby vibrated with the force. His world narrowed to the brutal rhythm, the smell of jet fuel and sex, the grunts from the woman using him, and the soft, encouraging sounds from the phone.
“That’s it… take it all… you’re mine, Randy… every part of you…”
Sloane’s pace increased, her breathing growing sharper. Her hands gripped his hips hard enough to bruise. With a final, deep drive and a stifled groan, she emptied into him, a hot, flooding claim. She stayed buried for a long moment, then pulled out.
Randy slumped, barely holding himself up. He felt empty and used, raw and burning. He felt filled with her.
He heard more movement, the click of a case. Sloane’s hands were on him again, spreading him. Something cold and large, slick with lube, nudged at his abused entrance.
“This one’s from Katie,” Sloane said, and for the first time, her voice held a hint of genuine amusement.
He tried to clench against it, but he had no strength left. The object, a heavy, bulbous plug, pressed inward and lodged deep with a soft, final pop. A second later, a low, powerful vibration buzzed to life inside him, a relentless thrum that seemed to resonate in his very core. It was connected by a thin, flexible wire to a small control unit, which Sloane deftly attached to the front of his cage, locking it in place with a tiny padlock from her pocket.
The vibration was constant, maddening, a teasing promise that went nowhere.
“All secure,” Sloane said. She pulled his clothes back up, the fabric rough against his sensitive skin. She handed him his phone. Katie’s face was serene, smiling.
“Welcome to the final descent, baby,” Katie said. “The plug stays in until I say. The vibe stays on. It’s a reminder. You’re carrying her with you. You’re carrying my permission. Now go sit down. Try to sleep.”
The call ended.
Sloane was already straightening her uniform, tucking herself away, wiping her hands with a sanitizing wipe from a dispenser on the wall. She looked at him, a spent, trembling mess against the luggage. She nodded, once, as if grading satisfactory work.
“Go on,” she said, opening the compartment door. The brighter light and warmer air from the cabin felt like an invasion.
Randy walked back to his seat, the vibration inside him a constant, humiliating pulse. Every step sent a jolt through him. He sat down, buckled in, and stared straight ahead. The passenger beside him, an older man reading a paperback, glanced over and gave a polite, closed-lipped smile.
“Rough flight?” the man asked amiably.
Randy looked at him. He felt the cum slowly leaking from him, held in by the vibrating plug. He felt the dried salt on his lips. He felt the tiny key to the padlock, now nestled in Sloane’s pocket, likely already on its way to Katie.
“No,” Randy said, his voice strangely calm, a flat lake over impossible depths. “It’s been a smooth ride.”
He turned back to the window, to the darkening sky. The compass needle wasn’t just pointing north anymore. It was buried deep within him, buzzing, pulling him home.